


needle and a thread [gotta get you out of my head]

by pagan_mint



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 4
Genre: Ajay gets some action, F/M, M/M, Surprise Kissing, a good old five times fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-10 03:50:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5569888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pagan_mint/pseuds/pagan_mint
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four times Ajay kisses other people and makes Sabal insanely jealous, and the one time Sabal takes matters into his own hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	needle and a thread [gotta get you out of my head]

The first kiss happens after Sabal officially announces Ajay as his second-in-command. They’re walking through the crowd afterward, with some people reaching out to touch Sabal’s sleeve and more trying to do the same to Ajay. A few Golden Path soldiers are trying to keep the mass of people from completely engulfing the two men, but none of them were expecting someone to shove their way through everyone to grab Ajay and plant one on him.

The kiss only lasts for a second before the son of Mohan makes a startled sound and jerks back, away from the press of unfamiliar lips on his. Sabal does nothing to stop it, staring frozen as unfamiliar emotions abruptly course hot and vicious through his blood; then a soldier is grabbing the woman, forcing her to her knees, while another sticks a gun in her face.

“Cut it _out_ ,” Ajay yells, stepping between the weapon and the stranger, and then he’s snapping something to the lady about sexual assault. The woman says something about being overwhelmed and looks like she’s about to cry; Ajay softens his voice, smiles, sends her off and turns back to the soldiers.

“She said she was sorry,” he snaps when one of them opens his mouth, “so drop it.” He turns his gaze to Sabal, who has thankfully managed to compose himself. “Where are we headed, again? I can run ahead and grab a car.”

The new leader of Kyrat names one of the bases Ajay has liberated and watches him depart. It takes him a minute to realize that one of the soldiers is trying to get his attention; it takes him the next two days to get the thought of Ajay’s lips out of his head.

**

Sabal has never actually met Rabi Ray Rana, though he’s intimately familiar with the man’s voice – too much so, frankly. He finds him annoying and wants him gone. At first, it’s because he’s always on the air, too-often talking crap about Sabal’s “regime” and what Amita would have done differently and better. Sabal has already executed plenty of Amita’s known supporters, and frankly he thinks that getting rid of Rana wouldn’t be a bad message to any that remain. His absence would be notable, and after all, being a good leader is all about being able to send the right messages.

He knows that Ajay knows where the man hides out, so he demands to be taken to the bunker. Ajay seems dubious and clearly doesn’t want to take him, but Sabal insists it’s something he has to speak to the DJ about personally. The son of Mohan reluctantly acquisitions a vehicle (Sabal has never thought to ask him where or how he finds the cars he drives, or what happens to them all) and takes him on what seems like an agonizingly roundabout route through the hills, up into the mountains, to some tiny hut that would not have been locatable or even noticeable to anyone who hadn’t known exactly where it was. It does not escape Sabal’s notice that Ajay knows exactly where it is.

Even less escapes his notice when they disembark the vehicle and enter the building. Ajay knocks on the door first, because that’s the kind of person Ajay is, but Sabal still hears a crash as they enter.

“Who goes there?!” yells an all-too-familiar voice, and before Sabal can even think of a response Ajay’s let out an easy chuckle and moved into the room ahead of him.

“Easy, Rabi. It’s just me.”

This incites another crash, followed by a cry of “ _AJAY_!” and the sound of footsteps. Sabal’s eyes adjust to the dim interior lighting just in time for him to see a young man in tacky sunglasses hurl himself onto Ajay, wrap his arms around his neck, and smooch him on the mouth.

Sabal had told Ajay to take him to Rabi Ray Rana’s with the full intent of simply speaking to the man at the most. This intention abruptly changes to one of cold-blooded murder, and he has his gun halfway out of its holster before Ajay disentangles himself and holds the DJ away at arm’s length.

“Rabi, you gotta stop doing that. And I brought Sabal,” he says before the garrulous man can start blurting words. “He told me to, and I couldn’t very well refuse him. You know that. He just wants to talk.”

“ _Sabal_?!” Rana demands, scrambling backwards and colliding with a wall of radio equipment. “A-are you crazy, Ajay? Sabal wants me _dead_! After everything I’ve said about Amita – and y-you – he’s going to kill me!”

“ _No_ , he’s _not_ ,” Ajay says, and his voice takes on a tone that Sabal has never heard from him before. “Because if something happens to you, he’s going to have to answer to me.”

Rana goes really quiet at that, and Sabal watches him – leaning back and pressed against the radio controls, while Ajay looms over him with an aura of command and determination that the older man has never seen in him before. The moment drags on, until something shuffles with the sound of claws against cardboard in the background and seems to snap the DJ out of whatever trance he’s in.

“Damn, that’s hot. I mean, that’s _really_ hot. Do you do that often? Oh my god, you should bring more people who want my ass on a platter up here. Chotu, are you seeing this? Because I’m seeing this, and let me tell you, this is – that is not a gun, in my pants. I wouldn’t keep a gun there anyway. I wouldn’t keep a gun anywhere, I would probably shoot myself by accident. And where would you be then? Driving around without a DJ, that’s where you’d be. I mean, you might be there anyway, now that Sabal knows where I am, but I trust you, Ajay. I believe in you. And I like you, like, really _really_ like you, not that I’m gay or anything, I mean, Amita was a hot piece of ass too – ”

“ _Rabi_ ,” Ajay insists, but that smile is on his face again, and Sabal cannot _concentrate_ past the rushing of blood in his ears and the way his fingers won’t stop clenching into fists that leave half-moon dents in his palms. “Rabi, man. Pay attention. I don’t know what Sabal wants to talk to you about, but I’ll be right here the whole time. And hey – don’t put this on air,” he adds warningly, taking a seat on a neatly packed box that doesn’t seem to be rustling. “Not like last time.”

“Oh, sure, sure, Ajay. It’s not like you were a very stunning radio personality anyway, I mean, I’m surprised we didn’t get more complaints. Actually, now that I think about it, we didn’t get any complaints. Anyway, what did His Majesty want to talk about?” the DJ asks, tilting his head to one side and looking at Ajay rather than at Sabal. His continued flippancy is a direct result of Ajay’s presence; Sabal can practically see him leeching energy and confidence from the son of Mohan.

“Just call me Sabal,” says Sabal, his voice perfectly calm and betraying none of the turmoil of emotions he’s wrestled with over the course of their conversation. “There are several matters I wish to discuss with you.”

The conversation goes smoothly, and he never brings up the one thing he wants to talk about the most. A large part of him wants to send Ajay out of the room so he can pistol-whip the touch of his lips off the DJ’s, but he resists the urge. Finally, they’re in the car and heading back to wherever Sabal’s current base is located. When they arrive, Ajay parks and turns in his seat to stare at Sabal.

“I want to keep hearing him on the radio,” he bites. “If you value me at all as your second-in-command, you’ll do as I ask.”

“As long as he does not present a threat,” Sabal agrees - but does not specify a threat to what.

**

To Sabal’s surprise, Ajay initiates the third kiss. It turns out there’s some godforsaken brothel near Shanath Arena, and Sabal personally goes to shut it down, both as a gesture of power and a matter of principle. The man in charge of the brothel is snappish and aggressive, like one of those nasty fish that seem to lurk in every body of water in Kyrat. He’s not unattractive though, built like one of the Golden Path’s transport trucks with a jaw more chiseled than the cliffs near Banapur. His appearance isn’t something that Sabal notices – other than as an indication of potential physical force – until Ajay draws attention to it by sweeping forward from Sabal’s side and deliberately running a hand along the aforementioned jaw. A naked hand, the regent notices with a slight hitch in his breath. He’s never seen Ajay without his gloves on, but here he is now, touching a strange man with his bare fingers in a way that should have been perfectly innocent. Should have been, but clearly isn’t, with the way the man’s eyes are widening and lips are parting. With the way Ajay’s stepping forward, into him, between the brothel owner and Sabal.

“Look,” he says, his voice thick and sending Sabal’s heartrate through the ceiling. “There’s no need for violence.”

“Isn’t there,” the man says shortly. His hand comes up and rests on Ajay’s hip – the one that Ajay is deliberately jutting out, his other leg bearing the majority of his weight. “Tell me why not.”

“Cooperation with the Golden Path doesn’t come without some… perks. Work with us, instead of against us, and maybe there’ll be something in it for you.”

The man looks down at Ajay with hooded eyes. He’s tall, probably six-foot-two to Ajay’s five-foot-ten, and he uses that height to his advantage, putting his other hand on the smaller man’s shoulder. “Really now?”

“Really now,” Ajay echoes. His hand slides along the cut jawline, through thick dark hair, curls around along the back of the man’s neck, and _pulls_. Pulls the jagged brick of a whorehouse owner into a kiss that is deep and obscene and lasts entirely too long for Sabal’s taste and obviously too short for the man’s. He continues to lean forward as Ajay pulls away, opening his eyes and a grin splitting his face (his ugly, rectangular face) only after Ajay takes a step back and breaks all physical contact.

“ _Well_ then,” the man says, and looks at Sabal with his tousled hair and wet lips and eyes that are absolutely _shining_. Eyes that Sabal wants to be dull in death. “I imagine we can come to some form of arrangement.”

Ajay leaves after that, abruptly called away to deal with some rogue royal soldiers trying to overthrow an outpost. In his absence, Sabal finds an excuse to put a bullet in the man’s brain. And a few more in his torso, for good measure.

Ajay finds him later and asks how the mission went. Sabal tersely reports the news of the man’s death – so unfortunate, tragically unavoidable – and feels vindicated when Ajay clearly looks relieved.

“Oh,” he says weakly. “I mean, that’s – that’s bad, that’s terrible, but – I shouldn’t feel relieved, I guess, but I do, a little. I’ve been feeling a little guilty. I probably shouldn’t have promised him something I wasn’t willing to give. It seemed efficient at the time, though. I, uh, I’ve dealt with people like him, back in America. They tend to understand two languages – violence and sex. I figured if we went with the latter, it would be less risky.”

Sabal puts on his most serious expression, the one he knows Ajay pays the most attention to. Crossing the room, he grabs even more of the younger man’s attention by putting both hands on his shoulders.

“Don’t do it again,” he says intently, and means every word. “We had plenty of men there. We were more than capable of taking care of any violence that might have arisen. He’s dead now anyway; I would much rather have shot him for trying to pull something this afternoon rather than have you subject yourself to… _that_.”

To his surprise, Ajay laughs. “Oh, it wasn’t that bad,” he says. “I mean, at least I was in control, right?”

“Right,” Sabal says, hoping that his voice does not sound as tight as his chest feels. “Well. Go on and get some rest, brother. I have some work to do.”

“Of course you do,” Ajay sighs, suddenly sounding exhausted. “Alright. Good luck. Call me if you need me.”

The door shuts behind him, and the words _it wasn’t that bad_ ring in Sabal’s brain all night long.

**

Sabal is fine with women – when they aren’t aggressive, confident, commandeering women with attitude and presence. Kamala Kanta is every one of those things, and he loathes her. Which would be fine, if he didn’t desperately need her. If _Kyrat_ didn’t need her.

“Well,” she says, all skinny jeans and sass and a sweater that fits too snugly for common decency. “With the decisions you’ve been making, this country is on its way to Hell in a handbasket. To be fair, it’s not _all_ your fault – looks like the previous person in charge made some big mistakes – but you have got some serious money-making issues. Apart from a few gold mines that might yet yield something, you’re basically out of natural resources. Any decent farming land was ruined by rapid-farming opium, and then you burned it, which is a legitimate agricultural technique – if you do it right. Which you didn’t. From what I’ve seen, it looks like you just sicced someone on the opium fields with a flamethrower.”

She whips her braid over her shoulder. It’s not as long as Amita’s, but long enough to be irritatingly reminiscent, and for some reason she’s braided a long red ribbon into it that matches her sweater and her stupid beanie and dangles down longer than her hair. She claims to have been born and raised in India, but she went to school in America, and it’s obvious in her accent that’s closer to Ajay’s than Sabal’s. Also in her attitude, which is brash and aggressive and the absolute opposite of everything Sabal has come to appreciate and value in women. They are supposed to be soft and gentle curves and obedient demeanours, not sharp and witty and all hips and red lips and glossy black fingernails.

“Can you fix it?” Sabal asks, trying not to snap at her like he wants to. She’s a financial expert, she’s brought multiple large corporations back from deficit pits that would have ruined them, and she agreed to take on Kyrat _pro bono_ as a charity case and test of her skill. He can’t afford to chase her off.

“It’s gonna take a lot of work,” she sighs, shoving some maps aside to sit on the edge of the table and get better access to her laptop. “And you’ll need more than just me. Give me a little bit – I’ve got the ideas of a plan, but I need some more time to think.”

There’s a knock on the door, and it swings open to reveal Ajay. “Hey, Sabal, I just wanted to let you – holy shit, is that Kamala Kanta?! I mean, of course – I mean – sorry. Shit.” A gloved hand comes up to cover his mouth, and Sabal can tell he’s turning scarlet even past the darker shade to his skin. “ _Sorry_ , it’s just that I, uh, took a finance course in college. Your video series was a part of it, and I – you taught me a lot. You’re – you’re good at what you do. Just. Wow. I never thought I’d see you here. Kyrat doesn’t, uh… attract celebrities.”

Kamala _beams_ at Ajay, who is the kind of shy and uncertain that Sabal hasn’t seen since he arrived in Kyrat. “Gosh, I’m hardly a celebrity, but thanks for calling me one! That’s a real ego-booster. By the way, what’s that accent I hear? Americanski?”

“Yeah,” Ajay says with a grin – an actual _grin_ , all teeth and eyes sparkling and something Sabal has never seen him do. “Yeah, sort of. Born here, but my mom – it’s a long story, but I haven’t been back in Kyrat since I was a kid. Got here in time to help sort out the civil war, though.”

“That must have been fun,” Kamala drawls, and she’s emphasizing her American accent and Ajay looks ecstatic and Sabal is hating every minute of this interaction. “Say, you wouldn’t happen to be Ajay, would you? The second-in-command around here? He mentioned you briefly. Didn’t seem to think we would be meeting, though.”

“Yeah,” Ajay agrees, with a brief glance at Sabal. “I’m, uh, you know. War-torn country, second-in-command, keeps me busy. I’m in and out. No, er, no set schedule, really.”

Kamala opens her mouth to say something else, and Sabal interrupts her. “Can you tell me more about this plan you’re formulating? I’d like to know if there’s anything my men or I can do to help.”

She rolls her eyes – _rolls_ her _eyes_ , a gesture Amita taught him to hate – and winks at Ajay, which Sabal can’t quite believe. “No rest for the wicked. But hey, don’t go too far, yeah? I’ll probably be here a while, I can catch you up on what’s happening back in the states.”

“Yeah,” Ajay says, and grins again, though it’s softer this time. “Yeah. That would be… that would be really nice. Thanks.”

After that, Sabal keeps Kamala as busy as possible – or tries to. She’s not one of his soldiers, and reminds him of that sharply every time he tries to task her with something. She works quickly, efficiently, but entirely on her own schedule; he notices that she mostly works mornings and late into the night, and spends her afternoons doing what looks to him like nothing. When he confronts her about it, she has the gall to look offended.

“I’m _thinking_ ,” she retorts. “Lunchtime is thinking time, amigo. And sometimes naptime. Don’t criticize my process. You want something done, and I’m going to get it done, so stop worrying about things that aren’t your business. Remember, I’m doing this for free. That means I get to do it however I want.”

He doesn’t have a response to that – well, he does, but it’s something he would have said to Amita, and he doesn’t imagine that Kamala will take it any better than she would – than she _did_ – so he keeps it to himself. But it gets a lot harder when she sees Ajay leaving a safehouse and runs to his side, excited chatter resulting in her leaving with him in a battered Royal Army Jeep.

Kamala is in Kyrat for a month – all the time she could spare. By the final day, she has a solid plan to get Kyrat back on its feet and functioning as a country again, and it’s already been put into action. Begrudgingly, Sabal has to admit he’s pleased with her work; what he does not have to and will not admit is how he is far less pleased with her attentions towards Ajay. Every time she sees him, she finds some pretext to stop what she’s doing and run off with him to Kyra only knows where. Sabal can’t control her, but he still holds some sway over Ajay, so he starts delegating all manner of menial tasks to the younger man and sends him all the way from northern Kyrat down to Banapur and back again, and everywhere in between. But there is a reason many Kyrati think more highly of Ajay than of their self-proclaimed regent, and it has much to do with the efficient and expedient way he took care of Pagan Min and his administration. He makes short work of the errands Sabal sends him on, and even takes Kamala along on some of the simpler trips that are little more than deliveries.

But it’s time for her to go – _finally_ , Sabal thinks with private relief – and they escort her to the airport. Sabal stands on the runway with a few Golden Path soldiers, watching while Ajay takes her hand to help her into a tiny plane. Kamala Kanta stops and looks up at the son of Mohan, in her tight jeans and unnecessarily fluffy coat and her eyes heavy with too much makeup.

“It’s been a pleasure,” she murmurs, and her voice is just low and husky enough that it triggers alarm bells in the back of Sabal’s brain. “See you again sometime?”

“Sure – ” And that’s as far as Ajay gets before the kiss. It’s chaste, on the cheek rather than the lips, but she pulls away with a wink and a saucy look that has Sabal spitting with rage and heat. Ajay grins, slow and stupefied, and finishes his sentence. “I’d like that.”

He saunters (actually _saunters_ , his hips moving in ways he’s never moved them before) back to Sabal’s side, and together they watch the plane take off. Ajay actually waves after it, then sighs and runs a hand through his hair.

“Well,” he says, and smiles, leaving Sabal transfixed by the sight of the lipstick stain on his cheek. “She was… she was just. She was _great_.”

The regent of Kyrat stares after him with a dull sense of growing horror as he returns to his vehicle, caught by the unpleasant thought that somewhere in some other plane of existence, Ajay could have – and would have – sided with Amita. He finds the thought almost nauseating, and abruptly turns to get back in his vehicle.

“Are you alright?” the driver asks. Sabal nods and lies.

“I’m fine.”

**

For once, their fight isn’t about a decision that Sabal has made and Ajay disagrees with. Surprisingly enough, it’s the other way around.

“How can you be so reckless?” Sabal demands. He started the argument fully intending to remain calm; all he had wanted to do was express his concern and suggest that Ajay be more careful. But now he’s genuinely angry at how dismissive the son of Mohan seems to be about his own personal safety. He knows that Ajay is used to dangerous situations, but lately it seems to Sabal that the younger man has been entirely too careless. “You think I don’t hear from my soldiers at other outposts? You’ve had broken bones, gunshot wounds, been the victim of animal attacks. And you haven’t told me about any of this! You don’t mention it in a single report you’ve given me.”

“Those reports aren’t about me,” Ajay says tiredly. And he is tired, Sabal can see that now. He’s overlooked it for too long, ignoring the dark bruises beneath his eyes and the edge to his voice. “They’re about Kyrat. Everything I’ve done has been about Kyrat.”

“And Kyrat is grateful.” _I_ am grateful, Sabal doesn’t add. “But you can’t keep pushing yourself like this. I have other soldiers, I have other men. Any remaining members or sympathizers with the Royal Army has been quashed, for the most part. You should rest. You _need_ to rest.”

Ajay lifts his chin up just slightly, and it adds a startling amount of belligerence to his appearance. “Is that an order?” he asks sharply.

This is attitude. Ajay Ghale, the son of Mohan Ghale, the man who is known for his quiet demeanor and notorious for being nonconfrontational, is giving Sabal attitude. The older man’s surprise changes quickly into irritation, feeding his already existing anger. Still, he tries to suppress it, giving vent to it only through his increasingly agitated expression and the way his voice is rising in volume.

“No, Ajay, it’s not an order! It’s a suggestion, and one that I hoped you would take from me – not as your regent, but as your friend.”

Ajay’s eyes flash. “It seems like you’re one or the other, depending on what you want from me.”

Sabal doesn’t realize he’s struck him until the hand mark sharpens on Ajay’s cheek, stark and pale at first before deepening to a vivid, angry red. Neither man says anything,  
Sabal breathing hard from anger and shock and Ajay’s gaze aimed off to the right, where the slap sent it. After what seems like an eternally long silence, stretching into an infinity where Sabal still can’t think of anything to say to make this wreck of a situation right, Ajay speaks.

“I guess I’ve finally seen what kind of man you really are,” he says quietly, and it hurts that he’s echoing Amita but what hurts more is how small his voice is, without any of the confidence it’s gained during his time in Kyrat.

Sabal doesn’t say anything as Ajay turns away and walks out the door. He can’t say anything, because anything he says would make the entire situation worse. Words won’t fix this, he knows. And part of him doesn’t _want_ to fix this. He’s still hot with pride and anger, and though Ajay’s words cut deep, they do little more than make him more upset. Ajay doesn’t know him well enough to say things like that. Ajay is wrong. And Ajay can go get eaten by a tiger, for all Sabal cares.

The son of Mohan is gone for just barely three days before the regent of Kyrat is forced to admit – at least to himself – that he does care. He cares a lot, more than he should, enough that every time a door opens to a room he’s in or his radio crackles or he hears the crackle of nearby gunfire, his breath quickens and his chest tightens and he _hopes_ with an almost manic fervency that always leads him into disappointment.

It’s a week after their fight when Sabal finally sees him again, and it’s entirely by accident. Sabal has just finished prayer at a mountaintop shrine, and he is returning to the ATV that got him there in the first place when he hears something grunting and scrabbling on the rocky cliff face. When he turns to confront it, expecting some manner of wild animal, what he sees instead is an unmistakable seafoam windbreaker and its owner pulling himself over the edge and approaching the prayer wheel next to the shrine.

Sabal waits until Ajay has laid his hand on the wheel and spun it, smiling softly at the gentle clacking. He waits until Ajay has turned back to look out over the cliff, the light of the early morning sun glinting in his eyes and making him shade them with one gloved hand. He waits until Ajay pulls out his GPS and checks it, sees that there is a vehicle nearby, and turns towards him.

Then Sabal does not wait any longer. “Ajay,” he blurts with the strangled urgency and concern of the last seven days. The younger man recoils violently, doing so far too close to the cliff’s edge for Sabal’s comfort. But he catches and composes himself, at least to a degree; he is still staring at Sabal with eyes that the regent has seen too many times in the faces of animals caught in the headlights of a Golden Path vehicle.

“Hi,” he says, and his voice is loud and all American accent and none of the soft Nepalese lilt that had been eking its way into his speech patterns. “I, uh. Wasn’t expecting anyone to be up here.” He gestures a little frantically to the prayer wheel, the shrine. “No one usually is. It’s a little out of the way. But I guess it wouldn’t be here if people didn’t use it, that makes sense. I’ll just – I’ll go. Sorry – ”

“Don’t be sorry,” Sabal tells him, and his voice is ragged and all of the emotional that he couldn’t let it be in the presence of anyone else. “Leave the apologizing to those who need to do so. I’m sorry I struck you, brother. You’re right, I let my feelings get the best of me. I let them control me and it was wrong of me to do so.”

Ajay looks absolutely stunned, like this was the last thing he expected. When he continues not to move, Sabal does it for him, approaching slowly and laying one hand on Ajay’s shoulder.

“Please accept my apology,” Sabal murmurs into the crisp Himalayan air. “I cannot – you are my right arm, Ajay. I need you by my side.”

A muscle in Ajay’s jaw twitches, and he takes a step back, brushing Sabal’s hand off his body. “Is that it?” he asks. “You just need me because you can’t do the job by yourself? I had suspected, but I’m glad to hear it from you – that all I am is an amenity, a tool.”

“That’s not what I meant!” Sabal snarls, and this time he’s angry because he’s afraid, because Ajay’s not _getting_ it and he already thought he lost the boy once and this _can’t happen again_. “Ajay, I swear to Kyra – ”

“You don’t have to swear to anyone,” the son of Mohan bites out. “Don’t worry about it. I should have known better. I’ll just go.”

Before he can even think about taking a step toward the cliff’s edge, Sabal has cornered him against the wall next to the prayer wheel, next to the shrine where he prayed to Kyra for the safety of his country and his – no, Ajay isn’t his. Not yet. But maybe it’s just a matter of asking.

“Ajay Ghale,” he murmurs, and his fist is caught up in Ajay’s jacket and his face is half an inch away from Ajay’s and he can feel Ajay’s breath coming in quick, fast, alarmed little gasps that ghost across the jagged scar on Sabal’s chin. “Don’t you dare leave now. Not before I’ve shown you exactly what you mean to me.”

Ajay’s eyes go impossibly wider than they already are. “Show – ?” he starts, and his voice is high and winded and everything Sabal needs to push him over the edge from thinking about what he’s wanted to do for months now to actually doing it.

He launches up on his toes to get the extra inch he needs, pressing them both back against the wall. His lips crush against Ajay’s, and they’re exactly as smooth and soft as he had imagined they’d be every time he’d seen them kissing someone else. He closes his eyes, focusing on the feeling and sensation of the moment, and lets it last just a little bit longer before pulling away.

“You are _not_ just a tool,” he murmurs, his voice thick and rough. “You are my friend, my brother in arms – and I would like you to be more, if you’ll have me.”

Ajay stares back at him with windswept hair and flushed cheeks, his mouth wet and slightly open and making Sabal wonder if he’s aware of how tempting he looks. “Uhh,” he manages. “I didn’t – I thought – _how long_?”

“I can’t say,” Sabal responds after a pause, and he really can’t. It could have been from the first moment he saw Ajay get kissed by someone else; it’s more likely from his first glimpse of Ajay and his high cheekbones and his startled expression in the dim light of De Pleur’s basement. It could have been at any point between. “But I know now. I’m only sorry it took me so long to realize it.”

The younger man licks his lips in a gesture that sets a hungry edge to Sabal’s gaze, and glances back over his shoulder at the shrine. “I – er. What does, uh… what does Kyra think about all of this?”

 _You don’t believe in Kyra_ , Sabal wants to say. But instead he gives a devilish grin and leans back in, planting his hands on the wall on either side of Ajay.

“Let’s find out,” he replies, and the sixth kiss is mingled with the sound of the son of Mohan moaning into his mouth.

**Author's Note:**

> Don't kiss people without their permission, kids! That's not cool. Ajay should give Sabal a slap on the wrist for it, but he's busy being overwhelmed right now. He can slap him later.


End file.
